


so uhhh how about that local stickball team?

by GlassesBlu, oncewewerezombies



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Gender/Sexuality, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Alternia is Terrible, Ancestors (Homestuck), Bad Dirty Talk, Buckets, Bulges and Nooks, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Chucklevoodoos, F/M, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Illustrations, M/M, Office Romance, Oral Sex, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Pesterlog(s) (Homestuck), Quadrant Vacillation, Spitroasting, Subjuggulators, pale and pail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-18 05:42:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17574971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlassesBlu/pseuds/GlassesBlu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies
Summary: As a failed actor, Darkleer has to take whatever job is going.Working for clowns wasn't exactly what he had in mind. Gaining two demanding, vacillating quadrant partners was even less.Featuring illustrations from GlassesBlu!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A big shout out to Laurasaurus for being kind enough to beta my work, and provide unstinting encouragement.

calamitousCondescension [CC] began trolling totalitarianCaduceator [TC]

CC: hey kurlz  
CC: that ship you wanted me to do?  
CC: it's fuckin done, baybe. don't reeeeelly sea what you're aching for in the guy, tbqh  
TC: a motherfucker's tastes be god damn eclectic, i guess.  
TC: A MOTHERFUCKER APPRECIATES THAT EFFORT YOU WENT TO THOUGH, FISHYBITCH.  
CC: effort? pff  
CC: you minnow all i need to do is spray a fin and it's done. not that hard.  
TC: high class fishbitch just waves a claw and the world reshapes to her motherfucking command  
TC: LOOK AT ALL THAT MOTHERFUCKING OBEDIENCE TO YOUR WHIM  
TC: a bitch be some hot shit getting all that work done with no fuckin effort.  
CC: you gonna mako a gill blush.  
TC: YOU AIN'T NEVER BLUSHED IN YOUR WHOLE LONG ROTTEN LIFE, I COULDN'T BELIEVE MY WEAK WORDS WOULD BRING YOU TO SUCH A THING.  
CC: and there's the clownfish i fuckin luv to hate  
CC: mothaglubbin disrayspectful. 38P  
CC: lucky you some kinda cute, kurlz.  
CC: you good now baybe?  
TC: sweet sister, i am well fucking pleased.  
CC: you actin like his nook made of gold or somefin.  
CC: i mean, is it?  
CC: becrayse you minnow i could be aboat that sweet sorta action.  
TC: I AM PRETTY FUCKING CERTAIN HIS NOOK IS JUST LIKE ANY OTHER NOOK, MEENAH.  
TC: but that ass compels me. those motherfucking thighs.  
CC: you're a cod damn disgrace. ocray, i gotta do some kinda work or somefin tonight so i'll hit ya up later.  
TC: HIT ME UP?  
TC: or hit me up?  
TC: [:oD~](https://media.giphy.com/media/1GwQCU36RRMQ0/giphy.gif)  
CC: you're glubbin disgustin, kurlz. where do you even find those things.  
CC: but yeah, probubbly moray of the second type of hittin, once you're all set up with your sweaty bass blue tang beeeach.  
CC: lemme minnow how that all flounders out. hate to think that my interventions don't pay off.  
CC: meenah out!  
TC: DON'T LET THE DOOR HIT YA WHERE SWEET MOTHER GRUB SPLIT YA.

calamitousCondescension [CC] stopped trolling totalitarianCaduceator [TC]


	2. Chapter 2

 

BE THE NEWLY FIRED, PREVIOUSLY POPULAR ACTION STAR

It wasn't like you'd even enjoyed acting anyway.

Really. You shouldn't be upset. You'd spent a lot of time pretending to do things that made you feel anywhere from vaguely to exceptionally uncomfortable and having the producer cry tears of frustration at the amount of sweat you could produce in any scene, even when it didn't call for it. Perhaps especially when it didn't call for it - the stress of trying to manetain equilibrium seemed to mean an increase in output, not a decrease. You hadn't wanted to _be_ an action actormentor. You hadn't even applied for it, they'd just _picked_ you and like so many things, you'd gone along with it. 

Most of your life seems to have been one tedious search for meaning after another, for some sort of explanation as to why you are the way you are and you still haven't found it. You're starting to think you never will. But what are you really expecting from life. Maybe it's too much to expect, some sort of personal validation from the tyrannies of the Empire (all hail Alternia). Maybe you should just be pleased enough to be breathing. There are plenty of trolls who would enjoy being in your position. There are defoalnitely worse things to be than a blueblood of your stature, size and skills.

Your 'agent' (self-appointed, very irritating in person) is failing spectacularly at finding you another actormenting job. They're not even answering the one attempt you made to contact them after you were handed your last credit stub by your previous employer and told not to come back for anything else, just on the off chance that they'd found something, some sort of job that you could do. You don't think you're actually upset about the radio silence, but what are you going to do now? Maybe you should go and have another shot at entering the Archeradicator corps. They do take older recruits. Reassigned trolls. 

Maybe you'd do better this time - and maybe they'd take the fact that you'd split the target in half as a good thing, not a problem. Harnesstly, you don't understand why it was a problem in the first place. Your insistence that it wasn't an issue was apparently also off-putting to the recruiter.

You still think that your point that it would strike fear and terror amidst Alternia's enemies was well placed, and not creepy in any way at all.

Anyway, you don’t really want to think about that. You have more pressing concerns. What are you going to do? There's only so long you can just do nothing, you're not a wiggler anymare. Far beyond the friendly support of your musclebeast lusus and an Imperial stipend aimed at your education and comfort as a noble blueblood adolescent. You have some savings, and some freelance mechanical work to keep yourself hale for a little while at least, but not enough to replace an actual job. Per se. Not on a long term basis at least. Besides, every troll should be serving the Empire nightly. It’s just the way things should be. You wouldn’t want to do less than your duty; hopefilly whatever you find to replace your previous duty is somewhat more tolerable to you than actormenting was. There are a few things you can think of that would be worse. You think it probable that you can avoid those pitfalls, if you’re carefoal.

You gloomily eye the half-full glass in front of you and push it away slightly; you're not really the type of troll to hang around in public establishments indulging in intoxicating substances. Maybe you'll feel better if you head back to your hive and work on something mechanical; there's something soothing about the parts and pieces, and how they have efficient ways they can work. And inefficient ways. Trolls are much harder to deal with; squishier, and much mare emotionally fraught. Possibly you should write some slampoetry, you haven’t done that in, oh, a sweep at least. Maybe your muse will return, without the pressures of your acting job? It’s something you think you can look forward to.

Sighing, you get to your feet and leave a few half-caegars on the slab of the bar as a tip for the oliveblood currently working behind the counter. It’s herdly her fault that you didn’t enjoy your drink. That’s all to be put down to your foul mood.

When you answer your palmhusk chittering at you in the quietness of your own hive and out of the public gazenugget, you’re expecting your agent to be on the other end.

It isn’t.

It _really_ isn’t.

_Horsefeathers._

totalitarianCaduceator [TC] began trolling canteringTentation [CT]

TC: what’s up, motherfucker.  
TC: HONK.  
TC: honk.  
CT:(⌐■_■) E%cuse me  
CT:(⌐■_■) I think you may have picked the wrong Trollian handle to reply to  
CT:(⌐■_■) If I neigh respectfilly suggest that, Highb100d  
TC: YOUR NAME HORUSS FUCKING ZAHHAK?  
CT:(⌐■_■) Um  
CT:(⌐■_■) I feel I may regret this  
CT:(⌐■_■) Yes. This is Horuss Zahhak, no obscenity actually required  
TC: then i have the right motherfucking scumblood  
TC: LOOK AT THIS MOTHERFUCKER HERE, TRYING TO SUGGEST I MADE SOME KINDA FUCKIN MISTAKE.  
TC: who the fuck you think you are?  
CT:(⌐■~■;) My most sincere apologies, Highb100d  
TC: YEAH, THAT’S MORE MOTHERFUCKING LIKE IT.  
TC: anyway, so word is that you lost your job.  
CT:(⌐■_■) That is true, Highb100d  
TC: I’M FIXIN TO OFFER YOU A NEW ONE.  
CT:(⌐■□■;; E%cuse me, but did you just offer me gainfoal employment  
TC: that’s the haps, motherfucker. ain’t you all motherfucking pleased and shit?  
CT:(⌐■_■) ...yes, of horse, very pleased  
TC: I DON’T KNOW IF THAT’S REAL CONVINCING.  
TC: did i mention who the fuck i am?  
CT:(⌐■_■) No, sir  
CT:(⌐■_■) You hoof not  
TC: GET READY TO GET DOWN, BRO. PREPARED TO BE MOTHERFUCKING FLOORED.  
TC: you ain’t got the knowledge on of who you’ve been sassin at.  
TC: RIGHT YOUR MOTHERFUCKING ROLL AT THIS MOTHERFUCKING MOMENT.  
TC: you been done by the grand highblood.  
TC: BITCH.  
CT:(⌐■_■) …  
CT:(⌐■_■) You’ll forgive me if that seems  
CT:ʅ(⌐■_■)ʃ A little foalfetched  
CT:(⌐■_■) For the Grand Highb100d to be messaging someone like me out of the b100  
TC: believe a righteous motherfucking ninja when he suggests you do not make him prove it.  
TC: PACK YOUR SHIT.  
TC: i expect your happy ass to be at the sector 4 transterminal at 12 motherfucking sharp tomorrow.  
TC: YOU GOT THAT SHIT, BITCH?  
CT:(⌐■Д■) Wait. I mean  
CT:(⌐■Д■) What about  
CT:(⌐■Д■); Highb100d, you canter be serious  
TC: i’ll have a pick up there for you. so you best get believing, peasantblood.  
TC: THIS IS A MOTHERFUCKING HOLY COMMANDMENT FOR YOUR OWN LOWLY SELF.  
CT:(⌐■~■;) I see  
CT:(⌐■_■) I will make sure I am ready at the appointed place and time  
CT:(⌐■_■) As you hoof ordered, Highb100d  
TC: bitchtitty motherfucking righteous.  
TC: SEE, WAS THAT SO FUCKING HARD?  
TC: see you tomorrow, blue bitch.  
TC: [:o)](https://media.giphy.com/media/CgueQ55XydeE0/giphy.gif)

totalitarianCaduceator [TC] stopped trolling canteringTentation [CT]

 


	3. Chapter 3

BE THE SHARP BLADE OF JUSTICE BEING WOEFULLY UNDERUTILISED

Apparently induction is one of your duties now. For some certain value of it - but a tealblood learns very quickly exactly where they stand in the blood colour slash career determinative hierarchy or they don't remain standing long. And look at you! You've got all your limbs and pointerstubs, all your bits and bobs, you've even managed to gain something of a foothold of respect in the Church. Which to a certain extent gives you value in the Law. _Look_ at you, you fuzzy little draglet, you're doing _so well!_

You think that the fact that you arrived at your terminal Cruellest Bar exam a-dragonback probably also helped. Good lusus, best mom.

... For a blueblood that large, he looks remarkably diffident and somehow cowed. Intriguing! You know it's who you've come to fetch, so you stride right up and plant yourself in front of him, canepoint marking a target between his feet, your fingers interlaced over the dragon-head handle as you come to a halt directly in front of him. And you GRIN up at him, as widely as you can manage. Many trolls find it disconcerting.

He doesn't visibly react; good! Maybe he'll survive the clowns long enough to be interesting. Bluebloods did, generally - unless they really and truly fucked themselves over. The clowns did value a good straight man, and there were few subjugglators who were willing to be the butt of a joke. Bluebloods as a caste seemed to fulfil that function quite admirably. Maybe that was why the Grand Highblood had picked this one. He did seem so very, very blueblooded. He is not going to fit in _at all_.

“Horuss Zahhak?” you purr, because it is much better to be sure than to bring the wrong troll as the prize to your fetch mission. The mountain of muscle in front of you shifts one of the straps of the bags he’s got attached to him, like some kind of overgrown packbeetle and nods. Slow, and determined, like an avalanche.

“That is my name,” he says, as though you might have missed the up and down of his chin as he nodded in answer to your query. Please, you’re not blind! You’re just rocking a pair of sharp, Imperial-crimson coloured shades. The best kind of colour besides teal. It’s just so very _officious_. You feel good, you’re dressed to kill and you get to boss around someone of a higher blood than you, officially sanctioned. What a wonderful night it is! “And you...are?”

Oh look at that, he managed to bite back any kind of casteist slur! What a bright boy he is. Just where did the Grand Highblood dig this one up from? What rock was he hiding under? He’s not dressed like an archeradicator, although you can see the bowcase (hard to miss, it’s made to fit a bow proportionate to its owner, ipso factum, very large). More of what you would call almost a mechanic’s coverall, but more...tailored. The goggles he’s wearing obscure just about his whole face, but you can see the muscles in his jaw jump and tense as he subconsciously grits his fangs. You’re surprised he hasn’t seemed to have broken any with that kind of jaw ratio pressure. Goodness, what a fine figure of a blueblood he is, stacked to the fucking max. 

“The Neophyte Redglare, current legal counsel to his mirthful majesty, the Grand Highblood,” you answer chirpily, and you can see your perky demeanour wearing at him like sharpened steel on sisal, grinding away at that stoic demeanor just about relentlessly. Good. It’s going to be interesting to see how he’s going to take being surrounded by clowns at any hour of the night or day. They do have such a peculiar sense of humour! “I take it you’re ready to go, _sir_?”

Your impertinent tone does not go unnoticed. Your grin just inches up at the sides, corners of your lips drawing higher. Tighter. A death grin, a skull’s rictus on your face, and you enjoy the way he seems vaguely unsettled at the sight of your dawning expression.

“Yes,” he says shortly, and you step back, gesture for him to follow you and then set off sharply with a tick-tick-click of your boots on the pavement, punctuated by the scrape of your canepoint as you stride along. You move purposeful, striding along and he keeps up with you without the need to stretch himself. It’d be infuriating if you weren’t used to it; being a midblood alone amongst subjugglators, you’ve gotten accustomed to trotting just about everywhere, all the time, to keep up with the deceptively loping amble a full-grown purpleblood can put on with no effort. Absolutely ground covering, with no logical reason to be so. The gigantic towering _bastards_. “What conveyance will we be using to go to.” A hesitation. “Wherever it is we are destined?”

“We’re going to the Highblood’s favourite chorthedral. It’s not the Big Top, but it’s not the right season for going there. You’ll learn about _all_ the religious seasons and festivals, Mr Zahhak, by osmosis if nothing else. You’ll learn, or you’ll regret it—you’ll still regret it but you’ll be more likely to stay intact if you can keep your wits about you and _absorb_ those kinds of things,” you say, keeping up your brisk walk and not looking back to see if he’s keeping up. You know his pride wouldn’t have let him do otherwise, even if he was struggling under the wake of the multiple bags he’s carrying. Dearie dearie dear, just where did he think he was going that he needed all of that? You have to wonder what little he assumes is going to be available for his use when he reaches purpleblood territory.

He probably thinks that there is some sort of scuttlebuggy, or perhaps another mode of ordinary transportation waiting for you both. Wrong! You can feel his stare between your shoulder blades like a knife as you progress further beyond the terminal into the public thoroughfare, and then put two fingers into your mouth and whistle sharply.

You feel the _pleasedinterestedahbelovedwriggler_ pulse of Pyralspite in your thinkpan in a way you’d hesitate to call communing, but it’s definitely something. Pretty sure it’s just a dragon thing. Pretty sure you’re not actually about to start shedding brown bodily fluids and communing with animals and lusii at large. _Pretty_ sure (never say never).

There’s the heavy beat of wings overhead and then your lusus drops onto the street in front of you and almost causes an accident - the driver of the hoofbeast carriage coming down the street careens into a barricade but doesn’t clip your lusus’ haunch. You will consider this a win! If you manage to leave before she decides to consume either hoofbeast or driver, you will promote the moment from win to triumph. You’re halfway up Pyralspite’s shoulder by the time you realise that Zahhak hasn’t followed you, and you turn your head so you can crane over your shoulder at him. Raise an eyebrow.

“Well? Don’t just stand there lollygagging,” you admonish him before turning back to what’s in front of you, and keep climbing up the flying harness that Pyralspite deigns to allow you to put on her so you can fly in something approaching comfort. You throw your leg over your saddle and gesture vaguely behind you. “Climb up, Mr Zahhak! Don’t worry about your bags, just leave them on the street so she can pick them up; it’s below Pyralspite’s dignity but she’s never dropped anything yet that she’s carrying.”

You can _see_ the wheels turning over in his head despite the lack of expression and absolutely enormous goggles obscuring his face. Fascinating. Although to be fair, you’ve run into things like this before. He doesn’t want to admit he’s nervous or afraid, not to you with your blood colour. Perish the thought! Possibly he wants to make a good impression, and you’re the first step to him meeting his newest employer and owner of his soul. What had he been doing before this? You think he looks familiar somehow, something about the horns, but you can’t quite pick it, pin the name and the face to the nagging sense of deja vu. 

Fuck, that’s going to bug you until you figure it out.

“Well? We’re becoming a public nuisance, and I’d greatly dislike having to prosecute myself!”

That somehow seems to galvanize him into action and he piles up his luggage under your direction so Pyralspite can pick it up and then makes his way up onto the saddle behind you. He doesn’t even take that long to figure things out. Zahhak doesn’t put his arms around your waist as Pyralspite gathers his bags together in her claws and leaps for the sky, opting instead to hold onto the rim of the perfunctory passenger saddle. You don’t look back and let yourself feel the joy Pyralspite has in flying, making sure to ask nicely for her to fly you both to the chorthedral cum subjugglator fortress that the Grand Highblood has picked as his summer vacation spot. Not that he’s really on vacation; despite appearances otherwise, there is actually a lot of paperwork involved in the position. More than enough that it’s certainly tedious.

It’s not a long flight, really, although it would be quite the arduous distance on foot or by scuttlebuggy. A few hours. Long enough for your thighs to feel it and probably more than long enough for your passenger to expire of boredom and terror. He doesn’t fall off or clutch at you at any point in your flight, which you count in his favour. Compared to going by any other mode of transport usually available to your bloodcastes, it is so much faster and _scenic_. Landing in the field especially reserved for your landings—sometimes your position has its perks, though few and far between—you clamber down easily and Pyralspite deposits the cluster of bags to the side, settling down into a crouch as you leap the last few feet to the ground before she settles properly.

Zahhak climbs down much more slowly and carefully than you and sort of staggers to the side, walking as badly as some shiplocked seadweller on their first visit ashore for a sweep. You survey him through your glasses, and gesture towards the exit of the fenced off area. Pyralspite is already lifting onto her haunches in preparation for take off to go and rest up from the longer flight. You assume that seeing Zahhak into the hands of someone else to show him his quarters and make sure that he sees the Grand Highblood in sufficient style will take a little time but not much. You’ve got work to do that doesn’t involve ferrying around newbie bluebloods ( _honestly_ , why can’t you remember where you saw his face? You’re normally very good at this).

“I’ll take you to the blessed sister in charge of housing and feeding everyone who _isn’t_ a subjuggulator,” you say briskly, already starting to pick your way between tussocks of tough grass to the path that leads up to the graven, gaily painted turrets of the chorthedral. They’re meant to look like the ancient festival tents when the subjuggulators were a roaming, more lawless group. Before they bent the knee before the 2x3dent of Imperial dominion—but _shhh_ , you are definitely not meant to know about _that_. Much too warm to know about that kind of ancient circumstance so explicitly. What can you say? You’re an interfering busybody with a bent to discovering deceit—even in archived Imperial files that have absolutely nothing to do with any case you’ve ever worked on. “You can leave the bags—I’ll round up a lowblood to fetch them—”

“Excuse me,” he mumbles in a shocked sort of way as he interrupts your preliminary introductory spiel and you turn to see him lean over the low fence surrounding the field and throw up. Almost apologetically, choking wetly and retching as he empties his hungersack onto the ground. You look away to let him have his moment of weakness, trying not to listen as he so obviously tries to keep the noise to a minimum, and somehow stop. You can almost _feel_ the humiliation of disgracing himself like this radiating off him.

It takes a little while until he’s finished, until his heaving gasps and the wet sound of the contents of his stomach’s contents hitting the ground come to something of a hitching pause. He just sort of pants for a while, and you stare uselessly into the sky at the twin moons. Nothing to see here, no sir.

The awkward discomfort of the situation is an unwelcome visitor lurking between the two of you. People have thrown up getting off your lusus before, but they’d turned around and blamed you for their weak vacillating inner organs and all Zahhak seems to do is curl in himself in mortification. It’s (fuck, don’t think it, Latula!), His Honorable Tyranny forgive you—pitiful.

Sidling up to him, you fumble inside your tabard and find a square sniffnode wipe, handing it to him without looking at him except from the corner of your gazenugget. He mumbles a thank you, and wipes his eyes and mouth, before letting out a wavering sigh. You don’t know what prompted you to give him something to wipe his face with, and you don’t know why you’re not making snide fun of him right now. It doesn’t mean anything - it doesn’t have to mean anything. Does it? You’re on a career track! You don’t have time for things like quadrants, how foolish that would be. Especially not with someone of such a deep blue colour.

Stupid. Don’t think about it. Not worth it. He’s probably the type to either fetishise a lowblooded red quadrant or think it’s beneath him. He’s probably not even interested in anything like that with someone like you anyway. Put it down, push it away. It’s just a flicker, it doesn’t need to mean anything. You won’t let it mean anything.

“You can keep it for now,” you say hastily when he goes to hand you the bunched up cloth back, and he nods then tucks it away somewhere inside a pocket. He has quite a lot of those on his person, it’s somewhat alarming. “Well...shall we go? I’m sure the Grand Highblood will be waiting for your arrival, or at least you’re burning to see why you’ve been hired at all.”

“Something like that,” he says in a hoarse voice, probably strained by the bout of vomiting he’s just gone through. At least he hadn’t thrown up when you were both in the air. Pyralspite is willing to put up with a lot of things for you; you’re not sure if puke down her shoulder is one of them. “I…” He swallows with obvious difficulty, something like a choking click coming from his throat. “...thank you. Neophyte.”

“...you’re welcome.” Oh no oh no oh no. You don’t have time for this. You have so many plans and ideas, and you don’t have time for this kind of wigglerish nonsense. Quadrants. Pah! You have no need for them at all, and no time besides.

You look him over, gaze travelling from head to foot as he kicks some dirt and grass over the evidence of his shame. Everything looks fine, just a few things that need adjusting... without you really thinking about it, you reach up and straighten a strap on his shoulder, flick something off his vest. He looks absolutely boggled, so you take no notice of what you’ve just done and make your voice as bright and authoritative as you can to prod him into action, and into not thinking about the potentially pale actions you just committed on his person without a hint of provocation. 

“Let’s go, Mr Zahhak! The Grand Highblood does not enjoy to be kept waiting. That’s advice I’ll give you for free.”

You spin on your heel and head off, not looking back and trying to leave any errant hint of feelings in the dirt where they belong.

geistCadilesker [GC] began trolling canteringTentation [CT]

GC: S0 0ur n3w 3x3cut0r 1n 4rms 1s w3lc0m2d t0 th3 f0ld!  
GC: C0ngr4tul4t10nz 0n y0ur pr0m0t10n, pr10r 4ct0rt0rm3nt0r Z4hh4k.  
GC: 1 l00k f0rw4rd t0 w0rk1ng cl0s3ly w1th y0u, 3x3cut0r. 1 c4tch th3m, y0u sl4y th3m!  
GC: >;]  
CT:(⌐■_■) Ah  
CT:(⌐■_■) Thank you, Neophyte  
CT:(⌐■_■) I will, of horse, do everything in my power to assure that my duties are curried out to their foallest  
GC: 3xc3ll3nt! Th3 pr3v10us 3x3cut0r w4s 0ft3n r3m1ss in h1s dut13s. 0r n0t 4mus1ng 3n0ugh wh3n h3 c4rr13d th3m 0ut.  
GC: H3nc3 why h3 1s n0w th3. 4h3m.  
GC: Th3 3x3cut3d tr0ll f0rm3rly kn0wn 4s th3 3x3cut0r Tru3h0rn.  
GC: ( ••)  
GC: ( ••)>⌐■-■  
GC: (⌐■_■)  
GC: Y33333444444HHHHHH.  
GC: >;]  
CT:(⌐■_■) Quite  
CT:(⌐■_■) Hopefilly I won’t meet such an ignoble demise  
CT:(⌐■_■) The Grand Highblood was quite eager that I read the cull report  
CT:(⌐■_■) And I hoof done so. E%tensively  
GC: K33p y0ur g0ggl3s 0n, Z4hh4k.  
GC: 1 th1nk th3 Gr4nd H1ghbl00d l1k3s y0u. 0r h3 w4nts s0m3th1ng.  
GC: H4rd t0 kn0w! Gu3ss y0u’ll just h4v3 t0 w41t and s33.  
GC: >:]  
CT:(⌐■_■) I don’t see what you get out of warning me  
GC: H3h3h3h3. M4yb3 1 just d0n’t w4nt t0 br34k 1n 4 n3w p4rtn3r s0 s00n!  
GC: 1 h4t3 d01ng p1ck up duty! S0 just c0ns1d3r 1t d0n3 1n 4 sp1r1t 0f s3lf 1nt3r3st 4nd 3ff1c13ncy!  
CT:(⌐■_■) Just self interest and efficiency  
CT:(⌐■_■) Nothing mare  
GC: Mr Z4hh4k, 1 h0p3 y0u 4r3 n0t 1ns1nu4t1ng th4t 1 w0uld c1rcumv3nt just1c3 just t0 k33p y0u 4l1v3. W3’v3 0nly just m3t!  
GC: 0h l4 l4 l4, wh4t 4 sc4nd4l th4t w0uld b3! 1’d b3 just 4b0ut r3qu1r3d t0 turn mys3lf 1n.  
GC: >:0  
CT:(⌐■_■) That is silly and you will desist  
GC: >:P  
GC: 1t’s f4r fr0m th3 w0rst th1ng 1 c4n d0, Mr Z4hh4K!  
GC: But 1 w1ll w41t b3for3 unl34sh1ng my full p0t3nt14l.  
CT:(⌐■_■) I suppose I will take your word on your possible potential for the moment  
GC: >B]  
GC: > B]  
GC: >B]  
GC: H4v3 4 n1c3 r3st t0d4y, Mr Z4hh4k!  
GC: T0m0rr0w 3v3n1ng, 1 th1nk w3’ll st4rt putt1ng y0u thr0ugh y0ur p4ces  
GC: 1’m sur3 th3 Gr4nd H1ghl00d 1s 1nt3r3st3d t0 s33 wh4t y0u c4n d0!  
GC: 1 kn0w 1 4m.  
CT:(⌐■_■) Thank you for the  
CT:(⌐■_■) Vote of confoaldence  
CT:(⌐■_■) If that is what it is  
GC: Why w0uldn’t 1t b3?  
GC: >B]  
GC: S33 y0u 0n the k1ll1ng gr0unds, 3x3cut0r D4rkl33r.

geistCadilesker [GC] stopped trolling canteringTentation [CT]

geistCadilesker [GC] has logged off!

 


	4. Chapter 4

BE THE MOTHERFUCKING RAGING RYDA ON A PAIL MISSION

So far he’s been your motherfucking Executor for about two weeks and you think he’s settled in all right. Ain’t giving anyone shit, proper respectful, bow and scrape like any good motherfucking wellbred blue. Ain’t they just like that shit. Ain’t reacted to a sudden hellariotous motherfucking Faygo shower with much more than a shudder of distaste before going to get cleaned off, real dedicated to his work as far as you’ve been able to tell. Keeps to himself. 

Redglare thinks he’s funny, but you ain’t seen what your spiteful lawbitch sees in him yet. She could just be pulling your walking strut, she do like to do that when she thinks she can get away with it. Likes to keep all and sundry motherfuckers around her right up on their toes - as she motherfucking should. If any ninja or ninjalette couldn’t keep up with a motherfucking _teal short ass bitch_ as meant to be on their side and all, what the fuck could they hope to do as a lash on the unrighteous when up and required? 

Hadn’t been much of an entrance interview, per fucking se. You knew what you wanted a motherfucker for (you also know what you really want him for), his scores when he’d done his aptitude testing as a new adult were high enough, you didn’t think he’d have much of a problem. He’d gone quiet for a moment when you’d announced that his new role was as your primary executor, holy agent of Messiah’s Wrath, but he’d said something purposeful and properly abjectly flattering about it and your decision.

Yeah, as far as his motherfucking professional duties are going, he’s working out alright. A few of his early culls had been very clean and neat, too motherfucking quick to be any kind of funny...except for how his arrows punched right _through_ a motherfucker. You’d had a thought like maybe he’d cringed the first time he’d done it, but your howl of appreciative laughter had apparently reassured him.

Tonight though, MOTHERFUCKING TONIGHT… 

You don’t know what he’d done to his arrowheads, but they’d been some rrrrrriotous shit. Some real fucking ninja shit, and you ain’t even thought that a blueblood could manage something like that. So maybe you’d skimmed over the personal history part of his file, hadn’t really understood what ‘interest in mechanics and robotics’ could mean. Apparently, oh app-motherfucking-arently, it meant he could make up an arrowhead that all up and exploded a motherfucker from the _inside_.

Opened that rustblood right up like a fucking foodglobe in a processor. She’d stood there looking shocked for a second as the arrowhead sunk into her chest, but seemingly only halfway. Then it had...flowered. The struts of her thorax had cracked open and she’d sprayed like a Rock ‘n Rye fountain with juts of metal bursting through her skin before keeling over backwards, all her insides opened to show and her airsacks skewered on knives and hung out on display. You’d been slumped back, disappointed at the poor show, but seeing that had brought you surging back up in your seat. Eyes aglitter with the pleasure of seeing a _real good fucking show_ , and hearing the clamouring bloodhungry howls of the faithful who’d decided to spend some time watching the blasphemous, the criminal, the motherfucking traitorous get good god damn culled where they stood on the sand.

Motherfuck, you’re feeling it hard. Watching him just take a step back, avoiding the spray of dirty burgundy with an obvious clinical detachment and not even getting it on his pretty motherfucking boots that reach all up and onto his mid thigh, outlining that muscular sturdiness there...mmMMmmMM. You ain’t opposed to some motherfucking mess, some colour splashed all up on a motherfucker, but you’re enjoying watching him act so fastidious. Makes you think about dirtying him up.

It ain’t a big deal for you to catch up to him in the corridors near the armoury, not needing to make a noise about wanting privacy. You ain’t the motherfucking Empress; people leave you the fuck alone when you ain’t doing Church or they need you for something important, you don’t trail courtiers like a nasty smell just because you you. Leave that shit for the fish, you got more respect for your own fucking self than that.

“My motherfucking executor!” Yours, he belongs to you, you gloat to yourself and slap him on the back of his shoulder with a weight that’d send most trolls staggering sideways into a wall. He barely even _move_ , and your eyebrows lift, grin widening and getting hungry (hungrier). Seems like he can stand up to you physically; good to know. “I liked that shit you pulled out there; real motherfucking nice. You’re getting into the spirit of things, blue.”

“It’s my pleasure to serve, Grand Highblood,” he murmurs, and you like the way his head dips down in the face of your gaze and your grin. Can’t help yourself, can you, you dirty motherfucker. You _like_ it, when a motherfucker shows they know their proper place before you. “I’m glad you were pleased with my. Innovation.”

“Pleasure to serve, huh?” You like the sound of that. Propping one grasping frond on the wall, you unsubtly box a motherfucker in and prepare to hold court. You’re already aware that he looks good on his knees, he’d taken a true and proper knee in your throne room like some motherfucking old school ruled, and _damn_. Nice to have some fucking displays of respect. Your lawbitch is only respectful to a point, and she loves to take a bite out of your ass when she thinks you’ve shown it. Any motherfucking way, you got more important things to concentrate on right here than thinking about the sharp and pointed fangsome legislacerator that you ain’t never quite certain who she’s serving - you, the Courts or her own motherfucking agenda. “You want to serve up some more of that innovation, I can guaran-fucking-tee my pleasure with you.”

The praise gets him, you can see it. Those broad-muscled shoulders dropping a little from their hunched up posture, the lines around his mouth softening. Like he might even crack some kinda smile. Now wouldn’t that be something? 

Suddenly, you want to see him smile for you proper.

Almost more than you want to hear him screaming your name as you pail him into next week. Only motherfucking _almost_. You’ve gone to too much motherfucking effort not to get out what you want from the situation. A man’s got to have something fun to tide him over, in between dealing with the motherfucking fish and throwing hands up to the Messiahs, serving the Lord of Double Death’s angels as motherfucking required. You’re a busy ass kinda motherfucker, and you know exactly how to let yourself have some kinda dank release from all that unfunny stress.

“So what are you gonna do to blow off a lil steam now?” you ask, because you think you can use it for a segue into how blowing off steam by a roll on a pailing platform could be pretty motherfucking good. And especially so if it’s with you. You rub your finger and thumb together down by your side, displacing the urge to run your fingers through that fine silky ponytail, while he grits his teeth a little and something mechanical hisses about his person. You ain’t sure exactly where it comes from, the goggles on his face cutting his gaze off from you in a manner you suddenly find motherfucking irritating, or something else on his husk.

The fuck has he got going on here with all that shit he’s wearing? How the fuck would you peel him out of this uniform anyway? So many motherfucking...straps…stretching from shoulder to chest to motherfucking thigh, outlining the muscular shape of his body in a way that you don’t think is meant to be exciteful but you’re motherfucking finding it so. Could you tie him down, really bind him the motherfuck up? You think he’d look motherfucking _bitchtits_ strapped down on your concupiscent platform, held open, waiting for you. The lustful thought makes you daydream for a moment and then you zone back in as he speaks, feeling your eyelids gone heavy with salacious musery and wondering too much what he’ll taste like when you sink your fangs into the back of that easily bent neck.

“...well, I can’t really relax just yet,” he murmurs, in a sort of fussy way and you feel your eyebrow inching higher as you zone back in. Wait, what the fuck. He’s kind of backing up, and that ain’t the slightest what you desire right now at this motherfucking time. Brows squinching down and getting this kind of squirmy, shufflefooted way about him that is throwing you for a minor motherfucking loop. The fuck is going on here?

“Why the fuck not?” you demand to know, because why shouldn’t you know what your executor is planning on doing. Not that you’d in most motherfucking situations give the least of unimportant shits, but you’re fixing to get him to get his chill on with you. Via righteous and vigorous application of your bulge to his nook. Sounds like a plan to you, motherfucking most blessed and miraculous. 

“I have to ensure that my bow is properly cleaned and cared for—I couldn’t _possibly_ entrust it to some _lowblooded servitor_ ,” he says with this adorable little sneer. Like he ain’t motherfucking peasantblood compared to you or nothing. Makes you wanna kiss it right the fuck off him. Been a while since you had a flushfling, gonna be some kinda fucking fun. 

“Better to have it looked over by capable hands, I motherfucking hear you,” you say, keeping your voice low and almost purring as he looks surprising gratified at your comment. Damn. This is a slower burn than you’re used to, but it’s been a while since you hooked up anyway but Church. Or Meenah. But she don’t fucking count, that’s old motherfucking news. “I wouldn’t let just any motherfucker handle my clubs.” You look him up and down, and lean in just a bit more as he looks confused, letting something like a chirr creep into your voice, thinking sexy thoughts. Your sightorbs fall down onto that broad expanse of chest and you can’t get away from thinking about how it’d feel to get your bulge between his ‘spheres. You put a hand on his shoulder, gripping firm, looking deep into the reflection on his goggles, and he freezes. Well, at least he ain’t moving away anymore, right. “ _Hey._ ”

“...yes, Highblood?”

Motherfucker sounds all shades of confusion, you’re gonna make sure there ain’t no confusion in a second. You give him a smouldering look, and rub your thumb over his pauldron like he could feel it. Oh yeah, gonna get your neden game on.

“You know what I like about a motherfucker?” you purr and he shakes his head, looking sort of stunned and absolutely focused on you. You ain’t mind the focused part, you bet he really gets into it when he’s being pailed. You got a feeling like he’s a screamer; you think it’s gonna sound good when he’s singing out your praises to the Messiahs and packed full of your bulge. “A brother enjoys how you’ve got like, two tits-” 

“ _Excuse me, what-_ ” he interrupts you in a choking scandalized tone, but you forge right the fuck on. Ain’t no stopping a ryda when he’s on a MOTHERFUCKING ROLL.

“It’s pretty much motherfucking exactly the right number of tits for a guy to have,” you finish, and wink at him, feeling the corner of your mouth stretching out to something you couldn’t call anything but a leer. He’s flushed and sweating, it’s really kinda motherfucking cute for such a brawny motherfucker to look flustered to shiiiit like that and so you start sliding your hand down but he kind of.

Shakes you off.

_\- what the fuck -_

Steps back.

“This has been a very, uh, _exhilarating_ conversation, highblood, but I really must—I must attend to my work—excuse me—”

You wouldn’t quite call what a blueblooded motherfucker does booking it, but it sure does come fucking close. And it leaves you with an ache in your globes and your jaw hanging loose like you’re some kind of motherfucking CHUMP. And Kurloz Makara, is no one’s MOTHERFUCKING SCRUB BITCH. You stare after him for a second, metaphorically scoop your motherfucking jaw up off the damn floor and consider what’s left of your dignity.

… At least nobody saw that fucking shit. Thank the Messiahs for small motherfucking miracles, but you know those supreme beings have your back. A miracle here or there is the LEAST a righteous ninjallo like you can expect from the universe.

Snarling under your breath, you wheel and turn off. Like fuck you’re going to chase down a blue piece of neden like you’re so damn thirsty you’d put some effort in it. More than you already had (damn fool). You hate it but you know exactly what you’re gonna do when you hit your rooms, now you ain’t got a nice muscular body with a booty to share it with. She’s gonna motherfucking LAUGH at you and it’s gonna be shit, but just fucking often enough to keep you reeled in, she’s got some good advice. Maybe this will be one of those times—and not like all the _other_ motherfucking times.

Fuck your life. Fuck your _entire_ life.

 

totalitarianCaduceator [TC] began trollingcalamitousCondescension [CC] 

TC: meenah, help.  
CC: oh this is rich. you're askin me for kelp, and strayght up too.  
CC: wharf the fuck are you up to, clownfish?  
TC: I THINK I'VE FORGOTTEN HOW TO FLIRT.  
TC: or something. shit. i don't know what's up with this motherfucking bitch.  
TC: THIS WAS MEANT TO BE A GOD DAMN EASY PAIL, BUT HE AIN'T PICKING UP THE BAIT.  
CC: are. you. searious wave me right minnow.  
CC: 38D  
CC: AHAHAHAHAHA!  
TC: shut your FUCKIN mouth!  
CC: LOLLLLLLL!!!!!  
CC: i think i'm fuckin crying oh my glub. 38'D  
CC: COD DAMN. poor widdle grub, can't get his leg over a fuckin blueblood.  
CC: i'm cryin actual glubbin tears pier. this shit cray, buoy. and you were so shore of yourshellf too.  
CC: that's what makes it the B-EST.  
TC: BITCH, IT AIN'T THAT MOTHERFUCKING FUNNY.  
TC: ain't even unfunny.  
CC: c'mon, it's at L-EAST a littoral funny.  
TC: ...FUNNY TO YOU MAYBE.  
CC: be funny to anybaydy BUT you, i'm pretty shore.  
CC: couldn't you just, you know. shell him.  
TC: what?  
CC: that you think he's a thot and you want him on your platform, be there or be culled.  
TC: MEENAH. MEENAH NO.  
TC: [:o(](https://media.giphy.com/media/iBK9gFOh9NcEU/giphy.gif)  
CC: works for me. i mean, the 'or be culled' is glubbin implied, i ain't some kinda thirsty trash.  
CC: not pike you. 38)  
CC: cod, i can't B-ER-E-EF you ain't pailed him yet. it's been what, a cycle? two cycles ebben.  
CC: you're ushoally betta than this. i was expectin dirty pics a week into it.  
CC: gimme my dirty pictures of pumped purple blue nook, kurlz.  
TC: i don't know, he's.  
TC: SHY? I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO FUCKING CALL IT. BUT HE AIN'T PICKING UP WHAT A MOTHERFUCKER LAYS DOWN, THAT'S MY POINT.  
CC: fuck.  
CC: fuck, this is SO FINNY.  
CC: 38’D  
TC: eat shit, bitch.  
CC: shell me why it’s so hard. just explain this to a beach.  
CC: you ain’t acted like this in a whale. I don’t bereef the fact that he’s SHY - for fuck’s sake - is the ONLY rayson you’re findin this so difficult.  
CC: ooooh.  
CC: oh HO.  
CC: 38)c  
TC: OH NO. NO NO NO.  
CC: you went and caught some eelings didn’t you, you fuck up rockcreeper.  
TC: did fucking not.  
CC: you diiiiiiid.  
TC: [ >:o/](https://media.giphy.com/media/Xtih8epkGabfi8Rhnd/giphy.gif)  
TC: THAT’S ONE HELL OF A MOTHERFUCKING LIE.  
CC: i think i’m raaaayght. 38)  
CC: hoki, this just got a whale lot funnier, and i don’t think i’m gonna kelp you one littoral bait.  
TC: fishta. meenah. don’t fuck with me now.  
TC: [:o( ](https://media.giphy.com/media/xUA7aRXoHfwXDqlZSw/giphy.gif)  
CC: have fun figurin this ship out, baybe.  
CC: it’ll be good for you.  
CC: 38)  
TC: LIKE FUCK.  
TC: meenah, don’t you fuckin dare leave a righteous brother this way.  
CC: growth ain’t a dirty word, kurlz.  
CC: have fun! lemme minnow when you acshoally land this suckabeach.

calamitousCondescension [CC] stopped trolling totalitarianCaduceator [TC]

calamitousCondescension [CC] has put totalitarianCaduceator [TC] on ignore!

TC: MIRTHLESS BITCH.

totalitarianCaduceator [TC] has thrown their husktop through a window!

 


	5. Chapter 5

BE THE IMPROMPTU AND UNWILLING TECH SUPPORTACTICIAN

The husktop is a smoking ruin, and the Grand Highblood is glowering in a corner of his administrative block while you are left gazing down at what remains of his technological device. Slowly leaking ichor, the legs giving a little twitch every so often. _Mmm_. The delicate pane of crystalline substitute is not just cracked, it’s shattered. 

Admitting you knew anything about technology in open conversation with other bloodcastes was a mistake. It’s always a mistake; you really should know better by now. At least with other bluebloods, they often had a STRONG grasp of mechanics, electronics and assorted disciplines and didn’t require your help in this kind of thing. Apparently with purplebloods, it is quite the other thing. Personally, you would not want to rely on ‘miracles’ for something as mundane as equipment repair. 

This is not your _job_. 

You’re the Grand Highblood’s personal Executor. Surely there has to be some lowbood, some mustardblood or other in the building who knew how to put a husktop back together? This sort of thing must happen often enough, having a whole team dedicated to repairing the damage of displeased subjuggulators just seems like a worthwhile business expense. 

You press your fingers together in front of your mouth, palms together, and hold back a sigh with some difficolty. If he wanted to, he’s mare than pecheronally funded to be able to buy a new one. The latest and best on the market, if he so willed it and probably have it delivered post-haste. Apparently, nothing more than this one will do, and that you should be the one to fix it. Fiddlesticks, and also horsefeathers. 

“...this isn’t my field of expertise, Highblood,” you venture. His scowl says it is not a message that is well received. Things have been. Awkward. With the Grand Highblood. You think it’s related to that encounter in the corridor; you don’t know what you’ve done wrong, exactly. He couldn’t possibly have been inferring what you thought he might have been inferring. That would just be—well, you’d be thinking far too much of yourself. 

He’s the _Grand Highblood_. 

“So?” he growls, and you hold in another deep sigh. Maybe it’s foalish of you to feel aggrieved at his persistence in this situation, but you do. “Fix that shit up, bluebitch.” Ugh. The language he uses is so … barbaric. But obviously you couldn’t possibly say anything to him about it. Considering your disparate stations in life. His obvious existence as your superior. 

He prowls around the room again and you carefully lever up the screen with a microtool to see what lies beneath. The legs of the husktop spasm and you reach up idly to click through the magnification on your goggles so you can get a better look at the microcircuits and obtain a better estimate of the damage. It is, as you thought, quite extensive. Much too much damage to fix here, on his desk. And thank Flicka for that, you’re getting uncomfortable with him so close and obviously simmering with some sort of extreme emotion. 

Now you just need to be able to tell him. 

“... I can’t even try to fix this here, Highblood,” you say, and try not to feel too pleased about that fact, which is in all accuracy the plain and simple truth of the matter. But you want to hightail it out of this room, from under his intense gaze and brooding looks. You try to subtly adjust your high collar encircling your throat, which suddenly feels much too tight as you swallow a sudden excess of saliva, and you can feel the small engines in your goggles and suit click and purr as you sweat more heavily from the stress of the entire situation. Draining sweat away from your skin, depressurising along your hide and allowing you to perform the gentle, subtle movements you need to make in order to perform this kind of fine work. “I need more tools than I brought and I—” 

“Then motherfucking _bring them here_ ,” he snarls and you can feel your shoulders hunch, head lowering as he stands behind the chair you are seated upon, hearing the creak of wood as his hands grip at the back and tighten their hold until the piece of furniture has to protest. Cool breath washes over your skin, and you don’t really dare move. Something languid and furious stirs inside your chest, and you take your own deep breath. Exhale slowly. Make sure that the furious surge inside you settles down again; you are very good at keeping control of your temper. Now. You’re not a wiggler anymare, some nervous and flighty colt without control. Some signs of highblooded rage are expected from one of your colour, but of horse, not around or in reaction to your superiors. 

No matter how deserved. 

If you wish for me to fix this, then I will do my best,” you say firmly, with as much strength of purpose as you can manage. “But I will need time—space—” His hand slams down on the desk and the husktop jumps; you don’t. You are somewhat more used to the ways of subjuggulators by now; Redglare ( _Latula, she’d said you could call her Latula_ ) had greatly assisted in your career transition from actormentor to government employee.“And _quiet_ , which I can see is in short supply in your administrativeblock.” You flip one of the twitching legs of the near destroyed husktop and feel your lip curl in contempt without your express permission. Mm. “My suggestion is to buy a new one, in all honesty, Highblood. I can resuscitate it enough to retrieve your data much more easily then basically rebuilding it.” 

“You will do as you’re _motherfucking told_ ,” he purrs in your ear and you hold back a shiver. The kind of thought that that brought to mind was entirely unprofessional, and extremely inappropriate. It’s just wishful thinking, that’s all. But you would almost think—it’s a little like he’s trying to _bait you_ , get you to react in one way or another. If you didn’t know better (and you do), you’d think it was almost like the caliginous playflirting that had happened when you were still adolescent and locked into communal schoolfeeding groups. 

You sit there, in silence, hands lax and not doing anything as he stands over your back. There’s a rising tightness in your chest and you don’t know what to do with it. You don’t want to be disciplined for failing to carry out orders; it’s just the manefest unfairness when you can’t perform because it’s just not _feasible_ that irritates you. Gets right under your skin. Another tea date, you think to yourself, with Latula may be well advised. When you both have a chance in your schedules to catch up. You are sure you can at least get her on her palmhusk after this. For a quick … discussion. 

“Then I’ll rebuild it,” you say and push back from the desk, sweeping the husktop and your tools into your bag in an unwieldy jumble. It is nothing like you to be so untidy and inefficient, but you won’t stay here and be berated like that when you are trying to do your best for him. It’s just. You can’t stand it, and you don’t know why it _bothers_ you so much (you don’t want _this_ from him). “Pray excuse me for the moment, Grand Highblood. I’ll make sure to return your husktop once the repairs are complete.” 

You’ve thrown him off balance by shoving the chair into his legs and he looks a little silly and absolutely speechless for a moment, hanging onto the corner of the desk for balance. You grab your bag, hoisting the clanking thing over your shoulder and bow stiffly, maybe just a hair short of how deep you should go. For a true sense of respect; you’ve never shorted the Grand Highblood of anything that was his due before but you feel _irritated_ with him. Flystruck, hide stinging. You need to get out of here before you actually do something unforgivable, something he can’t ignore or pass off as a momentary aberration of poise. His eyes narrow menacingly and you straighten, before heading for the door and passing through it at a quick and efficient pace. Before he can say anything else. 

You need a shower. A nice long shower, and some space to think. Maybe when you’re finished, this all might make some kind of _sense_. 

And if it doesn’t… 

Well. Latula did say you could message her at any time if you had any questions, particularly when it came to the Grand Highblood. And right now? You have many, many questions indeed. 

canteringTentation [CT] began trolling geistCadilesker [GC]

CT: (⌐■_■) Redglare  
CT: (⌐■_■) If you’re not busy  
CT: (⌐■_■) May I have a maremont of your time  
GC: 0h h0!  
GC: Y3s, y0u m4y 1nd33d, D4rkl33r. Y0u’v3 c4ught m3 4t 4 d34d m0m3nt, 4ctu4lly.  
GC: Wh4t d1d y0u n33d t0 t4lk t0 m3 4b0ut, 3x3cut0r?  
CT: (⌐■_■) Well  
CT: (⌐■_■) It’s not strictly  
CT: (⌐■_■) Work related  
GC: >:?  
GC: W3ll, n0w 1 r34lly 4m 1ntr1gu3d.  
GC: Wh4t tr0ubl3s y0u, 3x3cut0r? 1 c4n’t t4k3 y0ur c0nf3ss10n but 1’ll l1st3n 4nd pr0v1d3 s4g3 4dv1c3 1f 1 c4n.  
CT: (⌐■_■) It’s  
CT: (⌐■_■) This is embarrassing  
GC: M0r3 3mb4rr4ss1ng th3n puk1ng 1n fr0nt 0f m3?  
CT: (⌐■_■) When you put it like that  
CT: (⌐■x■) Possibly not  
GC: S0 sp1t 1t 0ut 4lr34dy!  
CT: (⌐■_■) I think possibly I’ve offended the Grand Highblood  
CT: (⌐■_■) Or upset him in some way  
CT: (⌐■~■) He was very  
CT: (⌐■~■) Eager to talk to me after I used the new arrowhead I’d designed at the last execution  
GC: Y3s, th4t w4s 4 g00d sh0w! 1 th1nk 4ll th3 subjuggul4t0rs w3r3 v3ry 3xc1t3ed.  
GC: >;]  
GC: 3v3n 1 w4s 1mpr3ss3d, 4nd th4t 1s n0t e4s1ly d0n3.  
CT: (⌐■_■) Thank you, but  
CT: (⌐■_■) I think that may be the leading cause of the issue that has arisen  
CT: (⌐■_■) I am not very skilled at handling  
CT: (⌐■~■) Percheronal mareters  
GC: >:?  
GC: 1 b3g y0ur p4rd0n?  
CT: (⌐■_■) Personal matters  
CT: (⌐■_■) And I think I’ve just made things worse  
CT: (⌐■_■) It just seems so unbelievable. I can’t be reading the situation correctly  
GC: Wh4t 3x4ctly s33ms s0 unb3l31v4bl3?  
GC: Th3 pr0s3cut10n d3m4nds d3t41ls, 3x3cut0r!  
CT: (⌐■_■;; I think I require a new stack of towels  
GC: 1’m fr4nkly 4qu1v3r, Mr Z4hh4k!  
CT: (⌐■_■) It simply feels like I must be exaggerating matters  
CT: (⌐■~■) But I suppose you’ve worked with the Grand Highblood somewhat e%tensively  
CT: (⌐■_■) Perhoofs you can shed some light on the reasonings behind his a%ions  
GC: C0m3 0n, sp33d 1t up! Y0u’re k1ll1ng m3 sl0wly h3r3, H0russ.  
CT: (⌐■_■) This neigh sound ridiculous  
CT: (⌐■_■) But I think you were correct when you said the Grand Highblood wanted something from me  
CT: (⌐■_■) Um  
CT: (⌐■_■) I think he’s been al100ding to mareters of a very percheronal type  
CT: (⌐■_■) Specifilly, and very potentially  
CT: (⌐■_■;; Quadrant related  
GC: >:O  
CT: (⌐■~■) Actually, that sounds very filly when I put it down in blue and white  
CT: (⌐■_■) There is no way it could be a correct hypothesis on my part  
CT: (⌐■_■) Possibly we should disregard that this conversation happened at all  
GC: ...hmmm! 1 w0uld n0t d1sm1ss y0ur susp1c10ns s0 qu1ckly, 3x3cut0r!  
GC: Th1s 1d34 sm3lls 0f p0t3nt14l 1ntr1gu3 4nd cr1m1n4l1ty.  
GC: W1ll y0u 4ll0w m3 t0 1nv3st1g4t3?  
CT: (⌐■_■) I  
CT: (⌐■_■) Well, I suppose so  
CT: (⌐■_■) I don’t know that there is anything worth investigating  
CT: (⌐■~■) The idea is positively 100di%  
GC: >B]  
GC: W3 sh4ll s33! Y0u sh0uld kn0w by n0w th4t my n0s3 1s n3v3r wr0ng!  
GC: Th3 l1ng3r1ng sc3nt of cl0wn m4y c0v3r th3 gr0und 3xt3ns1v3ly, but 1 4m v3ry g00d 4t g3tt1ng t0 th3 b0tt0m 0f th1ngs.  
GC: Y0u m4y l34v3 th1s 1n my v3ry c4p4bl3 gr4sp1ng fr0nds, Mr Z4hh4k!  
GC: 1 pr0m1s3 1 w0n’t l3t y0u d0wn, y0u m4y d3p3nd 0n m3!  
GC: >;]  
CT: (⌐■_■) ...thank you  
CT: (⌐■_■) I should go  
CT: (⌐■_■) I still need to fi% His Hilarity’s husktop  
GC: o7  
GC: G0! Y0u s0und l1k3 y0u’r3 busy!  
CT: (⌐■_■) Yes. A little  
CT: (⌐■_■) Nothing insurmountable  
CT: (⌐■_■) It w001d be nice if  
CT: (⌐■_■) We met for tea again soon  
GC: >:]  
GC: 1 qu1t3 4gr33 w1th y0ur 4ss3ssm3nt!  
GC: 1’ll l00k 4t the c0urt sch3dul3 4nd l3t y0u kn0w wh3n 1’m fr33.  
CT: (⌐■_■) That sounds like it colt work  
CT: (⌐■_■) I’ll look forward to hearing from you  
CT: (⌐■_■) Goodbye, Latula  
GC: C4tch y0u 0n th3 fl1ps1d3, Z4hh4k!

canteringTentation [CT] ceased trolling geistCadilesker [GC]

canteringTentation [CT] has logged off!

GC: 0h fuck m3 runn1ng, wh4T 4M 1 D01NG.  
GC: L4tul4, y0u’r3 a p1ty struck f00l 4nd y0u sh0uld b3 4sh4m3d, m4d4m!

geistCadilesker [GC] has logged off!


	6. Chapter 6

BE A LEGISLACERATOR IN DESPAIR AND CONSIDER THAT TROLL ELLE WOODS NEVER HAD TO PUT UP WITH THIS

When you think about all the things you’ve drawn together, your carefully hoarded facts and all these little coincidences that just keep piling up, the truth of the matter is quite clear. But it might still not be. Then the one piece you needed to make sure that what you suspected was true, was absolutely, in all qualities, _veritas_ , had fallen straight into your lap. Like, if anyone listening would excuse the term, a miracle. 

Still, you think you need just a little more information so you can correctly plot your course of action. And as always, you prefer to go straight to the source. Sadly, it’s not a source that you can administer legal slappings to (dare to dream!), so you’ll have to use some of the other tools in your arsenal. 

The Grand Highblood’s office is open to you, mostly whenever you want (he trusts you). And it has been for some time now. But you usually don’t let yourself in this quietly, only to slap a folder of documentation down on what he’s working on right in front of his face, and more gently a cup of brewed bitterbean the way he likes it to the side. You cock your head in a way reminiscent of your lusus staring down prey and gaze at him as the corners of his mouth draw back in a snarl, baring misshapen needley fangs crowded together in crooked lines. He is dangerous, very dangerous. You’d be a fool not to know that and you are many things, but not one of those. 

“My lord! I think we need to talk about your nefarious deeds.” 

And goodness, they certainly _are_ some nefarious deeds. It’s not every night an actormentor is blacklisted for the purpose of a subjugglator booty call. All the same, Horuss is doing a good job of it—you think the clown in front of you got off easier than he deserves. Maybe his Messiahs are looking out for him, yet again. Or it’s just plain dumb luck. Both options strike a thinking chick like you as plausible enough—ha, of course you don’t believe in the Messiahs. He got fucking lucky. 

You hop up onto the corner of the Grand Highblood’s paper-strewn desk with a sigh, kicking out with your beautifully heeled, Imperial red boots and waiting for him to pick up the paperwork you’ve just presented him with. Resting your hands behind you and humming softly, as the sharp sound of paper rustling announces that he’s doing what you thought he would do and reading it. He can be intensely curious, and you know how to pique that curiosity to your advantage. You’ve always been very good at reading people, knowing how they’ll react, where they’ll bounce; it’s one of the reasons you’re so good at your job. 

You study your claws and consider whether you need to see the painicurist again to have them resharpened and recoloured brilliant Imperial red to match your boots and glasses, while the silence around you takes on a deeper and more foreboding tone. He could turn your mind inside out with terror and leave you weeping and drooling on the floor if he wanted to. He could twist everything in your sharp, capable thinkpan and turn it against itself, make you a ruin and whited sepulchre; he never has but you know that he can. He’s the Grand Highblood. There are many, many terrible things he could do to you! You hate him just a little, and pity him a little too. However! You’re not the sort of legislacerator to use personal attachment, certain questionable methods of persuasion to get your way, climb that elusive career ladder. 

Even at your blood colour, a girl has her pride. You’ll have what’s due by your own efforts, or not at all. You’d decided that a _long_ time ago. 

A long sigh, somehow sounding defeated, comes from the hulking troll next to you and you look up to see him closing the file with a soft _whap_ and just holding it there in the air for a moment. You show your fangs in a brilliant smile as he drops the folder on the desk next to your skinny butt, propping his elbows on his desk and looking at you with a sort of sullen look on his face. You don’t believe you’ve ever seen His Holy Jocularity looking like quite such a wiggler before! 

“You look like a wiggler whose lusus just told him there’s really no Twelfth Perigee Behemoth,” you tell him with a little acid-edged snicker and he flicks the side of your knee with a claw in reproof. You just grin at him, and ignore the throb of pain. You probably deserved that, even if you enjoyed the chance to say exactly what was on your mind. “Why so glum, my lord? He is here, after all. You can snatch him up at your leisure!” 

“… Huh. Can a motherfucker?” he muses, and your eyes widen gleefully. There’s vulnerability there, and you want to sink your claws into it and twist. You can never put the brakes on yourself when you know that there is something to discover, to find out. You’ve learned _discretion_ , but you’re not entirely sure if tact is going to become a part of your quiver of delights. It certainly hasn’t yet. 

“You could order him,” you suggest after a pause, because playing Handmaid’s advocate is what you do. Besides, good to know if you need to prepare for the worst case scenario; despite his servile exterior, you’re not entirely certain that Horuss is as easily led or cowed as he seems. Even by highbloods. The highblood currently in question leans both his elbows on the desk and sticks an accusatory finger in your face, lips drawn back in a snarl and a hint of purple dancing in his pupils. Like little flames. 

“ _No._ ” 

Well, that answered that question! Your grin gets another grublegwidth wider, the hinges of your jaw ratcheting another degree of impudence onto your expression. You’re glad, honestly. Not that you’ve ever really had _that sort of thing_ come up in your investigations about the Grand Highblood, but he did get Horuss fired. And installed as his personal executor to the Court of Miracles and Mirth. Although the whole occurrence had had just as many salty fingerprints on it as greasepaint-stained ones! 

If you were cautious, you wouldn’t get involved in something that stank this badly of Her Imperious Condescension, but. _But_. You think it could be worth it. And there’s at least one stake you’ve established here that you want to protect. 

“Well, I am certainly glad to hear that,” you purr softly, and his eyes narrow watchfully. He’s learned to mistrust that tone in your voice, and you think that’s wise of him. Still! He’s never ever had a reason to mistrust your work. “I wouldn’t want to have my opinion of you lowered any further, your Hilarity.” 

“Give the motherfuck over, lawsis, what the fuck is that meant to mean?” he complains, and you know he’s crafty and cunning and has weathered more than one attempt at a coup d’etat. But he sounds like a _whiny wiggler_. What a conundrum clowns are. Just too much whimsy and hellmirth for your liking! 

But at least you’re back to lawsis now. That’s a little safer than other things he could be calling you. It’s a fine line you like to dance on, that’s for sure. 

“Whatever you wish it to mean, my lord! Drink your bitterbean juice.” You nudge the cup with your finger and push it closer to him. He picks it up and sips moodily, flipping the folder open again and spreading the pages of your brief ‘T0P 10 R34S0NS WHY TH3 GR4ND H1GHBL00D 1S 4 V1LL41N0US KN4V3’ out to get a better look at them. Hmm. You don’t think the ninja assigned as his secreterrorist has been making sure he eats. You don’t want to make that one of your jobs too; you have your own issues with mealtimes. Sometimes things just get so busy! And better to miss lunch then miss a chance to tangle with the guilty, in your mind. “So, are you going to do something about it?” 

“What the fuck business is it of yours?” he snaps, and you shrug. No reason to involve yourself, officially. And you’re currently busy doing the tarantella over every shred of goodwill you’ve built up with His Mirthful Majesty. You know it, he knows it. You wonder if he’s thinking about what could be so important about Horuss that you’d do such a thing. If he’s figured you out. You’re kind of banking of him being too stuck in his own misery though. Highbloods can be very self-involved when it came to their own hurt feelings. You’ve used it more than once before. 

“I like this executor! He’s professional, clever, doesn’t demean me and my work,” you list, ticking things off on your fingers. There’s other reasons, but you won’t touch on them here. The way he pushes his hair back out of his goggles when he’s thinking hard about something. The way he’d looked when he’d given you your cleaned sniffnode wipe back. The clean lines of his body as he nocked bow onto arrow and prepared to fire. “Innovative! Does his own clean up! You’d understand why the last one is so important if you were a lower blood, my lord.” 

“Good thing a motherfucker is not.” He leans his head back and drains the scalding cup in a few gulps, before banging it down onto his administrativeplane with a deep sigh. You eye him, wondering just how much that hot liquid scalded his immense gullet. It had to have hurt, a little, but he doesn’t show a sign of it. “...and what are you going to do with this motherfucking tidbit you’ve dug up, industrious little paperbitch as you are, Redglare?” 

“Nothing, my lord.” He gives you a _look_. You flip the brief closed with a clawtip, and push it back towards him, dusting your hands off with a dramatic show. It’s amazing how calming having the papers in their hands tends to be, for clowns. They never seem to think you might have made _copies_. Or a palmhusk full of potentially incriminating, encrypted documents. “Nothing! Maybe next time you’ll be more careful about covering your tracks, hmm? It’s quite obvious when you go looking; lucky for you, Zahhak is the type of troll who takes things at face value, and is content to leave the circumstances of his arrival down to whimsy and chance.” 

He puts his hand slowly over the folder and pulls it closer to him, obviously claiming it. Since that’s the whole reason you even made it, you’re happy for him to do it. 

“Is that all you wanted to disturb a motherfucker’s hard labours for?” 

“Hard labours? I thought I walked in on you staring moodily into the distance; I don’t think that’s very telling of hard labours.” You hop off the desk with alacrity as he swipes at you lazily. If he’d meant it, he could have taken your ocular, or made you bleed quite easily. You’re pretty sure the Grand Highblood thinks of you as some sort of collared woofbeast, rather than a troll half the time. If it lets you get in a nip or two at his heels, then … well. You still fucking care and you fucking hate it with the fire of a thousand solar spheres, because you’re _not_ his pet, but it’ll do as long as you can make it work for you. “But if you don’t _want_ to talk about the latest episode of Slam Or Be Culled, I guess I can go!” 

He clears his throat, and drums his clawtips on the desk. Looking pensive before nodding, and gesturing to the desk. Looks like it’s an evening of sanctioned goofing off before you get down to some work. You’re ahead in all your cases, and besides … you enjoy telling him all the ways he’s wrong about the contestants. He’s very wrong about a lot of things, that’s just the way it is. 

“Better hop back up on that administrativeplane and park your ass, little sister, because sure as _fuck_ do I got some opinions to share there on a few motherfucking _poor showings_ by those scrub ass motherfuckers they dig up …” 


	7. Chapter 7

geistCadilesker [GC] opened memo on board 1 D3CL4R3 3V3RY0N3 GU1LTY 0F STUP1D1TY

GC: 1 w0uld l1k3 t0 p01nt 0ut that 1 d0 n0t h0ld mys3lf bl4m3l3ss 1n th1s 4ff41r!  
GC: Th3 c0urt f1nds th4t th3 pr0s3cut10n 1s c0rr3ct! W3 4r3 4ll 1d10ts, 4s ch4rg3d!  
GC: Th3 c0urt w1ll n0w l1st3n t0 th3 b3gg1ng 4nd c4p1tul4t10n 0f th3 gu1lty. 1f y0u l1ke, y0u c4n try thr0w1ng y0urs3lf 4t 1ts m3rcy 1n h0p3s 0f 4 l1ght3r s3nt3nc3.  
GC: H1s H0n0ur4bl3 Tyr4nny 1s hungry, s0 b3 qu1ck!

canteringTentation [CT] has joined the memo!

CT: (⌐■_■) Latula, what are you  
CT: (⌐■~■; Horsefeathers  
CT: (⌐■_■) Neophyte, what the heck do you think you are doing

totalitarianCaduceator [TC] has joined the memo!

TC: latula, mmhmm. i see that shit right there in front of my motherfucking ganderbulbs.  
TC: LAWBITCH, WHAT’S ALL OF THIS?  
GC: 4n 1nt3rv3nt10n!  
GC: B3s1d3s, 1 th1nk y0u w1ll 3nj0y my sugg3st10n, m’lud.  
TC: really motherfucking now.  
TC: [’:o/](https://media.giphy.com/media/fWh8aQQMJB0mL9zoIt/giphy.gif)  
CT: (⌐■_■) You invited the Grand Highblood to this  
CT: (⌐■Д■*) Latula, what sheneighnigans are you trying to enact  
GC: H0russ.  
GC: H0russ. My d34r, d34r 1d10t.  
GC: SH00SH.  
CT: (⌐■_■) I  
CT: (⌐■~■) Oh my  
GC: 1 s41d 1 w0uld 3xpl41n 4nd 1’m g01ng t0!  
GC: Y0u sh0uld pr0b4bly g3t 4 t0w3l, H0russ, 1’m g01ng t0 b3 3xc33d1ngly fr4nk!  
TC: OH, THIS BETTER BE REAL MOTHERFUCKING GOOD.  
TC: [:o?](https://media.giphy.com/media/Z0tFWbRWGwwTe/giphy.gif)  
GC:1 w1ll b3 4sk1ng th3 qu3st10ns h3r3, s1r!  
GC: Wh3n wh3r3 y0u g01ng t0 t3ll Mr Z4hh4k th4t n0t 0nly d1d y0u g3t h1m f1r3d 4nd bl4ckl1st3d fr0m h1s pr3v10us c4r33r, but th4t y0u d1d s0 0n th3 b4s1s th4t y0u l1k3 h1s 4ss?  
TC: YOU SWORE YOU’D KEEP IT TO YOURSELF, YOU MALIGNANT MEDDLING BITCH!  
CT: (⌐■_■) He what  
CT: (⌐■益■) I need to think about this new information at length, pray e%cuse me  
GC: ST4Y 1N TH1S C0NV3RS4T10N, H0RUSS, 0R 1’M G01NG T0 DR4G Y0U B4CK 1N H3R3 BY Y0UR H41R!  
CT: （⌐■Д■*) Hrkk  
GC: T0 c0nt1nu3 my 1nt3rrupt3d 3xp0s1st10n, 1t 1s 4 v3ry f1n3 4ss 1nd33d!  
GC: >B]  
TC: you sure you wanna be noticing that damn fine fucking ass right in my motherfucking face, bitch?  
GC: Y0u c4n fuck1ng sh00sh 1t t00, y0ur m1rthfuln3ss!  
TC: WHAT THE FUCK.  
GC: Y0u’re 4 t3rr1bl3 p3rs0n 4nd 1f 1 d1dn’t k33p 4 st33ly l3g4l 3y3 0n y0u 4s 0ft3n 4s 1 c4n sp4r3, 1 shudd3r t0 th1nk wh4t y0u c0uld g3t up t0!  
GC: S0m3t1m3s 1 just w4nt t0 k1ck y0ur stup1dly fl4t y3t s0m3h0w 4ttr4ct1v3 4ss up thr0ugh t0 y0ur ugly t33th!  
TC: [:oO](https://media.giphy.com/media/3o6Zt0FvYS23H89ZPq/giphy.gif)  
CT: (⌐■_■) I am  
CT: (⌐■~■) Very confused, in stall hoofnesty  
TC: you and me both, brother. but this is shaping up to be some hellariotous shit.  
GC: 1’m n0t d0n3!  
GC: H0russ, 0n th3 d3f1n1ng gr4sp3r fr0nd, f33ls s0m3th1ng 1n 4 s0m3wh4t d1ff3r3nt sh4d3 f0r y0ur unf41rly 4ttr4ct1ve cl0wn butt!  
TC: [;o)](https://media.giphy.com/media/2WksCdjwEQU8g/giphy.gif)  
CT:（⌐■Д■*) Latula  
CT:（⌐■Д■*) This is so very improper  
CT: (⌐■益■) I may neighd to demand you desist  
GC: 1 4m f41rly sur3 1 t0ld y0u t0 sh00sh! Just gr4b y0ur n3xt st4ck 0f t0wels, H0russ.  
GC: 1 kn0w y0u h4v3 l0ts; 1 br1b3d th3 j4n1t3rr0r1st st4ff t0 m4k3 sur3 y0u w0uld b3 w3ll 3qu1p3d f0r th1s c0nv3rs4t10n.  
GC: >B]  
CT: (⌐■~■) Oh my  
CT: (⌐■~■) So you did  
CT: (⌐■~■) Goodness  
TC: THIS IS MOTHERFUCKING GOLDEN.  
TC: [:o)](https://media.giphy.com/media/vIZ0U63Ig0uOI/giphy.gif)  
GC: 4nd s0 1 h4v3 4a v3ry sc4nd4l0us pr0p0s1t10n. T0 t4k3 c4r3 0f 4ll 0f 0ur curr3nt 3nt4ngl3m3nts, 4nd s0lv3 th3 c4s3 1n 0n3 f3ll sw00p.  
TC: ok, lawsis. you got this motherfucker’s righteous fucking attention.  
TC: WHAT’S YOUR GOD DAMN PROPOSITION?  
GC: >;]  
GC: 4 thr33s0m3!  
CT: (⌐■Д■) LATULA  
TC: honk.  
TC: [;o)](https://media.giphy.com/media/uG5AWrPOwfm0w/giphy.gif)  
TC: YOU KNOW I COULD COME AROUND TO THE WAY YOU THINK, ‘LATULA’.  
GC: 0h c0m3 0n, H0russ, y0u kn0w 1t m4k3s s3ns3.  
GC: >B]  
GC: S0 n0w y0u kn0w b0th 0f 0ur h4tchn4m3s, my l0rd! 4r3 w3 g01ng t0 g3t y0urs, 0r 1s H0russ just g01ng t0 b3 scr34m1ng 0ut H1ghbl00d?  
GC: Wh1ch c0uld b3 4ny h1ghbl00d, y0u kn0w!  
TC. ...tricky little lawbitch.  
GC: >B]  
GC: > B]  
GC: >B]  
CT: (⌐■~■) If the Grand Highblood w001d prefer not to share his hatchname  
CT: (⌐■~■) He is of horse, not obligated  
CT: (⌐■_■) It’s fine  
TC: I BETTER NOT HEAR ANY OTHER MOTHERFUCKERS MAKING MOUTH AT SOUNDING IT OUT, THAT’S ALL I GOT TO SAY ON THE MATTER.  
TC: get me, bitches?  
CT: (⌐■_■)7 Understood, Highblood  
GC: Y3s, y3s, y0u’r3 v3ry s3cr3t1v3 4nd dr4m4t1c. 1 sw34r, 1 w1ll 0nly us3 y0ur h4tchn1m3 1n pr1v4t3.  
GC: Just th3 w4y y0u w4nt.  
GC: >:]  
TC: [:o/](https://media.giphy.com/media/3oKIP8kNuTJJL3zT0I/giphy.gif)  
TC: BETTER FUCKING NOT.  
TC: it’s kurloz.  
TC: KURLOZ MAKARA.  
TC: and if i hear that name on any motherfucker’s lips besides thine own and i know i have not given it  
TC: I’LL YANK YOUR CALCIUM SUPPORT COLUMNS OUT YOUR FUCKING FACEGASHES, IF WE’RE ALL OF AN UNDERSTANDING HERE, MOTHERFUCKERS?  
CT: (⌐■Д■) My goodness  
GC: Y3s, y3s! Y0u’r3 4 b1g b4d subjuggl4t0r 4nd w3 4r3 tr3mbl1ng 1n 0ur sh03s!  
TC: you better be fucking trembling.  
TC: THAT WAS A QUALITY THREAT.  
TC: [:o)](https://media.giphy.com/media/Q5HjEI5xdX1N6/giphy.gif)  
CT: (⌐■_■) If I may  
CT: (⌐■_■) I w001d like to make one small suggestion  
GC: >B?  
TC: yeah, blue?  
CT: (⌐■_■) Can we at least get dinner or something first  
CT: (⌐■_■) Before engaging in  
CT: (⌐■_■) Uh  
GC: C0ncup1sc3nt r3l4t10ns?  
GC: >;]  
CT: (⌐■_■) Ah  
CT:  (⌐■_■) Yes, indeed  
TC: DON’T SEE WHY NOT.  
TC: a romantic motherfucker wants to be wined and fucking dined before he gets his nook destroyed.  
TC: I CAN STAND BY THAT.  
CT: (⌐■~■;; Oh my  
GC: S0m3 0f us l1k3 4 l1ttl3 4ppr3c14t10n b3f0r3 b31ng us3d 4s 4 bulg3w4rm3r, my l0rd.  
GC: H0russ just kn0ws h0w much h3’s w0rth.  
GC: >;]  
CT: (⌐■~■) That’s  
CT:  (⌐■_■) Latula, please never use that word again  
GC: Wh1ch 0n3? 1 us3d 4 l0t 0f w0rds!  
CT: (;¬_¬) You know what word I mean  
CT: (⌐■_■) Don’t disassemble, Neophyte  
GC: >B]  
GC: 1 m4k3 n0 pr0m1s3s!  
TC: are we bitching or we organising goreflix and motherfucking chill?  
GC: 3xcus3 y0u! 1 d3m4nd th3 f1n3st r3st4ur4nt, 4nd much sw33p1ng 0ff 0f my w4lk1ng stubs, Kurl0z!  
GC: 0th3rw1s3, wh4t’s th3 p01nt 0f d4t1ng s0 h1gh 4b0v3 my st4t10n? 1 4sk y0u!  
TC: THAT’S FAIR.  
TC: calm your tits, tulabitch. and just keep a gazenugget on your motherfucking palmhusks.  
TC: SINCE YOU ORGANISED THE MEMO, A RIGHTEOUS BROTHER WILL DEAL WITH THE DATE.  
GC: Th4t s0unds r34s0n4bl3! W3’ll l00k f0rw4rd t0 1t.  
GC: W0n’t w3, H0russ?  
CT: (⌐■_■) Yes  
CT:  (⌐■_■) Very much, Highblood  
TC: you’ve got my name now, bluebitch, might as well take advantage of that motherfucker.  
TC: CALL ME KURLOZ.  
CT: (⌐■_■) If that’s what you wish...Kurloz  
TC: alright, i’m almost late for sermon, so you bitches can just hang on for a while to give a motherfucker time to get shit set up.  
GC: W3ll, th1s b1tch d3m4nds th3 f1n3st 0f c0m3st1bl3s, s0 k33p th4t 1n m1nd.  
CT: (⌐■_■* Latula, harnesstly  
GC: 4nd H0russ 1s 4 v3g3t4r14n, s0 h4v3 fun w1th th4t!  
TC: MOTHERFUCKER.  
TC: ok.  
CT: (⌐■~■) I don’t want it to be a problem, Highblood  
TC: BE CHILL, MOTHERFUCKER. PREPARE TO GET MOTHERFUCKING ROMANCED.

totalitarianCaduceator [TC] has left the memo!

GC: L4st 1n, f1rst out, huh!  
CT: (⌐■_■) Latula, this colt have gone very badly  
CT: (⌐■_■) Playing silly games with a highb100d like that is e%ceptionally risky  
GC: D0n’t b3 4 l4m3w4d, H0russ! H3 w4nt3d t0 g3t 1nt0 y0ur p4nts f4r t00 much f0r th3 0utc0m3 t0 r34lly b3 1n d0ubt.  
GC: 1 t0ld y0u t0 trust m3!  
GC: >B]  
CT: (⌐■_■) I suppose everything turned out satisfactofilly  
GC: 1t d1d! M1ss10n 4cc0mpl1sh3d.  
GC: G0 4nd th1nk 4b0ut h0w y0u’r3 g01ng t0 d0 y0ur h41r f0r th3 d4t3.  
GC: >;]  
CT: (⌐■_■) I’m not that vain  
GC: D0 1t f0r m3! 1’d l1k3 1t 1f 4t l34st th3 tw0 0f us l00k3d pr3s3nt4bl3.  
GC: H1s H1l4r1ty 1s b3y0nd h0p3, 1 th1nk.  
CT: (⌐■_■) If it means that much to you  
CT: (⌐■_■) I will make an effort  
GC: 0h, 1t d03s!  
GC: S33 y0u l4t3r, 4ll1g4t0r.  
CT: (⌐■_■) I am herdly anything of the sort  
CT: (⌐■_■) I think perhoofs I should 100k into being offended  
GC: By3, H0russ!

geistCadilesker [GC] has banned canteringTentation [CT] from the memo!

geistCadilesker [GC] has banned totalitarianCaduceator [TC] from the memo!

GC: 4nd th4t’s th4t! J0b w3ll d0n3, ch1ck, m1m0s4s 4ll r0und!

geistCadilesker [GC] has closed the memo!


	8. Chapter 8

 

Dinner had been something of a disaster, you decided as the three of you staggered back to the church hive post said event. Latula is mostly leaning on you, but finding enough energy and spark to throw a barbed remark to the looming subjugglator who is your mutual superior when she feels the urge. Apparently she feels the urge often, and now has no compunction about making said remarks - at least in private.

“...can’t believe you took us to Troll Taco Bell,” she grumbles, and you hitch her up against your side a little more. Of course, after Taco Bell, there had been a strident demand to go somewhere that she could buy a decent sort of soporific to wash her mouth out with. It had been something of an—experience, to see the Grand Highblood in front of a fast food establishment’s counter ordering up a mountain of Doritos Locos tacos in various kinds of meat (grub, lusus and other), as well as a stack of burritos and keeping the lowbloods in the kitchen and on customer service duty in a terrified kind of rush to fill his immense and frankly, horrific order. Latula had contented herself with a pouch of cinnamon scarabs and a five-layer burrito, making sure to find a way to tread on the Grand Highblood’s foot in her high heels as often as she could manage while at the counter and on the way to your table. The rustblood who’d brought over the combined weight of the monstrous order had looked like he had been about to micurate in his crumpled uniform pants, but hadn’t actually, much to your thankfoalness.

“It wasn’t that terrible,” you say, trying to appease her. You’d certainly never had anything like that yourself before, but it hadn’t been truly disgusting. You had managed to choke it down without too much revulsion, and true to Kurloz’s word, there had been non-meat options. Amazingly. You’re used to making do, but they had had _actual meals_ just meant for vegetarians—or maybe just lowbloods who couldn’t afford meat.

“Don’t stick up for him, he doesn’t deserve it,” Latula croons and reaches up to slide her hand across your cheek. You shiver briefly, and look back almost guiltily to the Grand Highblood. Kurloz. He just grins at you silently, and takes a step forward to be closer to you and slips an arm over your shoulder, the way Latula has her more slender one half-way around your waist. The tealblood makes a scandalised sort of gasp, and fans herself with her free hand, angling a sharp-fanged grin up at the subjugglator. “My, my! What a disgraceful trio _we_ are going to look, coming hive, sodden and carousing. And in such company!”

Her sharp tone of mockery regarding the situation isn’t entirely misplaced. You might be able to get away with consorting with her or him, but not both in the same place at the same time. And for her to be with him..? Horsefeathers, you should have thought about all this! You know almost better than anyone how important appearances are, and you’re sure Latula has her own set of guidelines aimed at ensuring people took her seriously for the dedicated, rapier intelligent legislacerator she actually was. Instead of some sharp-eyed, quadrant-angling midblood with no talent at all.

Before you can think yourself out of the whole thing, Kurloz laughs. Low and hoarse, a drawn out chuckle. You feel more than see him lean down, and then set his fangs gently against your ear and drags them from lobe to pointed tip. You stumble, missing a step and Latula yelps, cursing your clumsiness and smacking her hand against your chest.

“Ain’t the first time a motherfucker has found a quiet way inside,” he says silkily, and laughs again. Chills race down your spine and Latula jabs an elbow into your ribs and you shake her off just a little, but the three of you keep moving. Somehow, you actually do make it inside without mishoof, or company that objects to the way the group of you shuffle your way into the chorthedral’s gardens, and then further inside to the paint-smeared entryslabs that guard the Grand Highblood’s personal quarters. They’re so old and so thick with blood that the stuff has somehow lacquered in multicoloured streaks up and down the wood. He disengages from you just enough to palm the lock and then push the doors open, swinging the heavy timbers back with ease so you and Redglare can step inside. “See? Don’t go mistrusting a righteous ninja, _my poor misguided heretical motherfuckers..._ ”

“It isn’t heretical if you’re not a believer in the first place, KZ,” Latula sniffs, and pulls herself away from you to go and explore incense-smoked rooms that neither of you have had any real reason to be in before. These are the Grand Highblood’s private chambers. You’ve been in his administrativeblock, of horse. But that isn’t these. You pass your hands briefly over each other, stroking your fingers along the length of your other hand in a quick wringing motion. He has more books than you would have thought, but otherwise your gaze passes over something you think is an alter, walls painted with murals awash with meanings beyond your secular understanding, colour bursting in silken spills of comfortnubs and a scattered drift of personal items in what amounts to a bazaar of luxury and absolute filth. If you’re going to spend more time here, you think you may insist he allows a janiterrorist team to undertake a deep cleaning, before either you or Latula catch something. And speaking of your erstwhile third... “Aw, yeah, radical!”

There’s a whoop from behind another door that you hadn’t spotted at first, too busy looking at the _unholy mess_ of the entryblock. Kurloz guffaws and then pulls you forward, hand caught around your wrist and you feel—gosh. You don’t think you’ve felt this oddly carefree and excited since. Since. Well. Ever.

“Latula, what are you _doing?_ ” you demand to know, scandalised as your (sort of— _maybe_ —ugh, what a mess romance is) moirail bounces on the obscenely enormous and wellpadded concupiscent platform like a wiggler on a bouncesheet device. Every so often, she lets out another little whoop. The high heels she’d been wearing to match the sporty little dress she’d worn to dinner are discarded on the floor and you catch a glimpse of teal panties as she throws herself backwards again midair, ruffled skirt fluttering.

Kurloz claps his hands together slowly, appreciative, as Latula collapses on the pile of comfortnubs. Spreads her arms out to either side and sighs slowly, before sitting up. You’re stiff and mortified, this is nothing dignified or anything like you’ve done before. Smooth cool hands settle on your shoulders, and slow fangs prick at the side of your throat, rough hair brushing against your ear.

“Maybe giving us a show, brother,” the Grand Highblood suggests, and Latula cackles—no other word for it—and stands up wobblykneed on the comfortslab, before pulling her dress up over her head and flinging it to one side with an extravagant arm movement. She’s not wearing a heftsack holster.

_She’s not wearing a heftsack holster._

“Court is in session, executor, and I declare you guilty of wearing too many clothes,” Latula declares, one hand on her hip and finger of her other hand pointing accusatorily at you while you’re still inwardly short circuiting at the sight of her pert and jaunty heftsacks. Her red vision-protectors are still perched on her nose, the pendant of the necklace she’d been wearing resting easily between the slight swells of her rumblespheres. Disconcertingly winking. You don’t think you can actually move; just sweat. “If you would be so kind as to assist, my fine ecclesiastical compatriot?”

“Would be a motherfucking pleasure,” he rumbles behind and above you, laughing at you just as much as she is. His grin is positively _lewd_ , and he makes a threatening gesture with his hands, before advancing on you. The licentiousness of the situation is giving you more than just a little thrill, and you can feel yourself sweat.

“You know I can—ah!—quite easily disrobe myself,” you protest, but not too hard. You’re only cooperating with the inevitable enough to ensure that your dress uniform doesn’t get torn or smudged with greasepaint. Which seems like a new hazard you’re going to have to find a way to deal with, when it presents itself. “Watch that buckle—yes, like that—”

You turn your capable hands in turn to assisting the Grand Highblood out of his own vestments, far too rich for the locale to which he’d taken the three of you. You’d all looked out of place for more reason than just your blood colour; dressed up as though expecting almost anything more formal than a local fast food joint. You suppose it was a joke of some kind; you don’t really mind it. Much. At least you hadn’t been the only one in the situation. It wasn’t like anyone that you’d known to care about the opinion of had seen you. Only lowbloods of no consequence. It’s something to comfort yourself with, you suppose?

Anyway, you’re getting off track—as your new quadrants remind you forcefoally.

“Zing!” Latula crows gleefully, and the pair of teal coloured panties go springshotting overhead before Kurloz tackles you gently to the concupiscent platform. And the tealblooded legislacerator under you both, squawking about frozen weights and elbowing Kurloz in the head before she grabs his thick mane of hair with one clawing hand and pulls him closer. They both look at each other silently over your torso, and you almost hold your breath before she laughs like a steel trap and surges up to kiss him roughly.

You don’t mean to make a sound, but you do and then they both turn their attention to you. It’s somewhat fearsome to be pinned under their joint regard, and you quail momentarily. You can feel a cool large hand cupping you somewhere - ah - around the rear region, and Latula swoops in to kiss you. Her teeth nip your lower lip and her fingers trace around the lower curve of your left orbital, as the Grand Highblood’s hand definitely gets a firmer grip on certain areas of your person.

You shudder, and reach out to grab onto something, finding cool flesh as you squeeze. Kurloz chuckles, and you can feel him shift to press you closer to the bed. A broad hand pulling your thighs open and apart, while crooked fangs nip at the back of your neck and Latula grins and makes her own assault. You endeavour to do your best to return the touches, to make sure that they know you want this as much as they seem to. Even if you’re still unsure as to how exactly you all got here.

But it feels so right.

And it definitely feels _good_.

“Come _here_ , you cagey motherfucker,” the subjugglator on the platform rumbles, and pulls your hair to swing your head around to where he can kiss your mouth. It’s different to kissing Latula, more demanding and less playful. The tugging tease of his hand wrapped in your mane makes you moan into his mouth, and you shiver, trying to rock your hips against something. Anything. “Mother _fuck_ , but I have been waiting for that ...”

You don’t think you’ve ever been kissed this much in your life. Your bulge is squirming out of your sheath and your nook is clenchingly wet and _empty_. Keeping control of your strength is pushing your patience to the hilt and you want _more_. More of everything. Whatever they’ll give you. And you want to give them just as much.

“Let me—I want—just—” You don’t actually know what you want, but your unspoken desires are answered as Kurloz pushes one, two fingers into your nook and you whine. It’s a disgracefoal sort of sound and _you don’t care_. Latula smothers your face in kisses and holds you up as you try to somehow roll your hips back onto the questing fingers curling deep against your inner walls, almost pressing on your seedflap. You’re on your hands and knees in the bed and pressed between them, lukewarm hands soothing the pacification receptors in your face and everything is just. It’s almost too much, but you’re being soothed at the same time everything’s being built up. You haven’t ever felt like this any time you’ve pailed before. You feel cherished.

“That’s right, you wanna give it to us, wanna be a good motherfucking toy,” Kurloz croons from behind you and you nod so fast in agreement, you almost give yourself whiplash. Has Latula been talking out of turn? Or is it just that obvious? That this is what you want. Giving yourself up to the Grand Highblood is one thing, but Latula is murmuring her own wicked little descriptions of what she wants to do to you, and how they’re going to share you between them and all you can do is shake and shiver and agree, agree, agree.

You want _everything_.

“Look at you,” Latula purrs, the teal in her eyes almost fully swallowed up by her pupils as they dilate widely. _Physical manifestation of arousal_ , a part of your brain notes clinically, and you know your eyes probably look the same. You’re sweating, panting, as big hands grab your hips, pull you back to where you can feel Kurloz’s bulge sliding against your thighs and you willingly slide your knees further apart as he groans against the back of your neck. “Kurloz, _look at him_.”

“I’m looking, believe me, lil sister.” You can feel the tapered tip of his cool bulge tracing over the lips of your nook, and if you glance down, you can see that Latula is fully extended as well. Teal bulge squirming energetically, and you smooth a hand over her thigh, feeling the ridge of a scar. You’re remarkably unmarked compared to both your partners; the Grand Highblood’s body is a battleground of ugly, thick twists of scar where a series of events have sought his life again and again, and the Neophyte has her own series of silvery shadowed scars from shoulder to ankle. Mostly from thin blades, you think, no doubt from her fellow legislacerators, and a few from the criminals she chases down with a vigor you truly admire. “But I think he wants me to do more that just look, ain’t that a thing I got true and correct, Horuss? _Say it, motherfucker_ , tell it true.”

The growled harmonics in his voice hit yours and Latula’s hindbrains at almost the same time, you can see it in her face. There’s just something about a nobleblood giving an order when they know it’s their right to do so. You can still feel his bulge tracing, sliding against your thighs and the tip barely, _barely_ stroking against the delicate, bloodflushed folds marking your entrance. Her hands tighten on your upper arms, elegantly manicured claws digging in to the point where you think (you hope) she’s leaving a series of bloody marks, and you shudder helplessly between them.

“Your bulge, I want— _please,_ I want it, Highblood, I—”

“ _What’s my name, bitch?_ ” he murmurs above you, behind you, you’re not sure where his voice is coming from. There’s something about the way he talks, that makes you feel like it’s his hands on your skin. And they’re everywhere. “ _What’s my MOTHERFUCKING NAME_?”

“Kurloz,” you gasp out, and he croons like you got the answer right. A deep pleased rumble. You hold onto Latula like you’re going to break and almost mindlessly rub your face up against hers, the slope of her pointed horns dragging along the solid struts of yours. “Kurloz, _Kurloz, KURLOZ!_ ”

You almost scream into Latula’s mouth as he pushes into you, one smooth thrust that fills your nook to the brim. You feel like he could fill your body entirely, thick cool bulge twisting and writhing in the ways that make every pressure point inside your nook light up with sensitivity. Latula’s tongue fills your mouth, her hands on your horns, clever thumbs rubbing against the bed and you pull clumsily, as gently as you can, at her hips to pull her up onto her knees in front of you. Nuzzling at her thorax, you lip gently against her skin until you can get your tongue on her bulge.

Finely fingered hands grasp your horns as you feel Kurloz start to move, and you move your tongue over and along the curl of Latula’s bulge. Gasping each time you feel the tip of the bulge inside you press and flick over your seedflap, more than able to accomodate the hard thrust of the subjugglator inside you as you’re fucked breathless and wordless.

“There, _so good_ , Horuss,” she murmurs above you as she kneels shaky on the platform and shifts her hips so that you’re directed to her nook, the base of her beautifully elegant bulge. Between the two of them, you stiffen your stance a little, thumbclaws dragging against the skin of Latula’s hips as she holds onto your horns and moans as you flutter your tongue against her nook and the edges of her boneplates. Prematerial slicks and coats your chin, her bulge dragging against the slope of your nose, the side of your cheeks as you chirp needily into her nook and try to rock your hips back onto the bulge that feels like it’s filling your nook to the point of excess and beyond.

Claws scrape patterns into your hide, the sting of your sweat marking each scratch as you move closer and closer to your climax. They both have the most _obscene_ mouths; you’d expected it from a clown, of horse, but Latula just about outdoes him. Filthy, sweet and absolutely energizing, until you’re panting and blowing around the bulge in your mouth, the pointed arch of Latula’s hips about the only thing you can see as she makes sure to fully enjoy the orifice you’ve more than willingly offered to her.

It’s depraved and so obscene that you can’t stand it any longer. You’d ask for a bucket - demand one, even - but your mouth is quite, quite full. Blue drenches you down to your knees as your mouth goes lax, only kept up by the grip your partners have on parts of your body, and Kurloz swears, pushes forward _harder_ somehow and you’re suddenly struggling to swallow and not inhale teal slurry even as your nook is filled with cool noble geneslime, feeling sure your stomach must be bloating with how much he pumps into your genematerial sack.

It all feels amazing, and you feel more than satisfied. You’d go so far as to say sated.

Once you all manage to disentangle yourselves, you wind up with your head on the Grand Highblood’s stomach and Latula sprawled inelegantly over the top of you both. You’re a mess of sweat and slurry, but you don’t mind it. Not when you have such excellent reasons for being so.

“Messiahs be motherfucking praised, and all hail their god damn mirth,” Kurloz murmurs with supreme satisfaction, hand brushing over your forehead and tucking an errant lock away behind the point of your ear. You hum thoughtfully, not willing to disagree out loud and parade your atheism so blatantly. Even though he has to know it.

“Praise be to me,” Latula points out, and reaches over to boop the Grand Highblood of the Church of the Messiahs, His Holy and Fearsome Jocularity, Lord of Double Death and Angel-Speaker, right on the point of his nose. Like he is some wiggler. You snort inelegantly, explosively and cover your mouth with your hand. You can feel your body shaking but you can’t stop laughing, wheezing silently with mirth. The grin of the legislacerator on top of you only gets wider, and more toothy. Sometimes she really does look like her lusus.

“Honkelujah then, spill one out for the legislacerators,” he drawls lazily, and reaches up to squeeze at her pert rumblesphere. She pretends outrage, gasping loudly and covering her mouth mock coyly with her fingers but making no move to shift his hand from its lewd position. He grins, and squeezes again. “Honk honk, lawbitch.”

“You’re _absolutely insufferable,_ and I should show you the full force and majesty of the law,” she tells him, and leans down over you to kiss him. More like maul his mouth with hers. A long arm manages to reach around you both to grab her ass and you smother your laugh in her shoulder, the tips of her hair brushing your skin as she kisses your third quite soundly.

“I take it, we’re doing this more than once then?” you muse outloud. It’s not as though you’re unwilling. In fact, certain parts of your anatomy are more than eager to show how willing you are.

“If something’s worth doing once…” Latula snickers, and pinches one of your grubscars. “It’s worth repeating. To excess.”

You suppose you can’t argue with that. You don’t really want to, either. The absolutely filthy laugh Kurloz breaks out suggests that he agrees, and so … you do.

By the time the daylight is fading you’re more than just a simple mess of slurry, and honestly at some point, you all really should have sought out sopor but the pleasure of exploring each other’s bodies had certainly surmounted the need for sleep. You’d watched Kurloz swear and bite lazily at Latula’s shoulder as she pushed her midblooded bulge deep into a noble purple coloured nook, feeling the delightful ache of having been on the receiving end of both of their bulges more than once spreading through your hips. You’d had your knees thrown over broad shoulders as a crooked-needle mouth feasted at your nook, Latula painfully and deliberately pulling at your hair while she kissed you so palely, your chirpblister couldn’t figure out whether to purr or trill. And more, so much more. You’re sure your every slurry reservoir has been fully and completely drained.

… And somehow, despite all the configurations that you have all already worked through, you think between the three of you, you’re going to find even more enjoyable ways to exert your bodies.

“Hhhn?” you mutter, feeling a cool hand palm your thigh, pulling your legs apart just a little more. Really, you should have insisted on showering, but at least you’d all moved off the sodden platform to a couch. All of his furniture is built with his body in mind, so it’s quite large, robust and comfortable. Latula is snoring in your ear, cradled in your arms so you suppose that must be Kurloz. He’d gotten up at some point, then? “Hhhhhsk…”

“Don’t worry about it, blue,” he rumbles out softly, and you nod your head dazedly. Not willing to go to the effort of opening your eyes. You hear a delicate click of a sound and it’s familiar, but you can’t place it. “Alright, shift up for a brother, huh? Let’s get some snooze on…”

“Mm.” Obediently, you shift up a bit to allow more room on the couch, and a cool slab of a body clambers on besides you. Latula makes a complaining sound, but is soon back to being fast asleep. And very quickly, so are you, sliding easily into sleep as his arm settles around your hip, face against your shoulder.

You’ve had a very exertion filled day, after all. It’s a good thing you have the night off, and nowhere in particular to go. You have a feeling you’re going to need the rest; hopefilly by the time you’re back at work, you’ll be walking properly.


	9. Chapter 9

totalitarianCaduceator [TC] began trolling calamitousCondescension [CC] 

TC: hey fishbitch  
TC: GUESS WHO GOT SOME BLUE MOTHERFUCKING NEDEN?

totalitarianCaduceator [TC] sent calamitousCondescension [CC]  a picture!

TC: suck on that, beach.  
TC: ONE OF THE BEST NOOKS I’VE EVER FUCKING PLOWED.  
CC: is that fuckin teal??  
TC: [:o)](https://media.giphy.com/media/XHGpgACzEKfra/giphy.gif)  
CC: 380  
CC: what you up to?!  
CC: KURLOZ!

totalitarianCaduceator [TC] stopped trolling calamitousCondescension [CC] 

CC: IT IS FUCKING T-EAL!  
CC: you betta get back to me at some point, clownfish, this beach want some fucking explicraytions!

calamitousCondescension [CC]  stopped trolling totalitarianCaduceator [TC]

calamitousCondescension [CC]  began trolling totalitarianCaduceator [TC]

CC: conchratulations bee tee dubs, you fuckin creeptastic rockcreeper.  
CC: cod, i’m gonna set up a fuckin pile and claw it outta ya, sea if i glubbin don’t.  
CC: i want ALL the details, bucketslut.  
CC: 38)

calamitousCondescension [CC]  stopped trolling totalitarianCaduceator [TC]


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